Off Duty Mom

Thoughts from an exhausted mom who is NEVER really "off duty"

Archive for the tag “mother”

Mother’s Day Post #2

“Embarrassing Things I Hope My Mother Hears About Me.”

by Meredith Bland

from Pile of Babies

I was walking the dog when I slipped on a manhole cover while crossing the street and fell right in front of a car that was stopped at the light. I tried to do the “mime climbing stairs” move when I got up to entertain the driver, but don’t think I pulled it off.

My son started screaming at a puppet show. I went to the front to rescue him and slipped on the wet floor right in front of a person-sized cat puppet. I landed in a perfect split, so I raised my arms over my head like a gymnast after a back handspring. No one laughed.

My husband served me a tamale last week. I didn’t know how to eat it. I had to ask him if I should eat the husk.

I love these stories. These are the moments of my life that I treasure like rare, exquisite gems; gems that most likely fell off the back of a truck and into a pile of cow manure being shoveled by a man in capri pants – they’re that special to me. And when these things happen to me, the first person I want to tell is my mom.

My mother raised my sisters and me to be humble. It was made clear to us while we were growing up that the world did not, in fact, revolve around us (she almost has me convinced.) That has turned me into an adult who does not take herself seriously. At all. In fact, I revel in my mistakes and stupidity – those things we do that connect all human beings because they are moments without planning or pretense. Moments where, more often than not, I make a quick and awkward descent to the ground.

And there is no better audience for those stories than my mother.

I love telling my mom about embarrassing things that happen to me. Whether she groans with me or laughs at me, it is one of my greatest joys. It’s one of the main reasons I started writing humor – I’m always chasing the high I get from my mother’s laughter. That’s especially true because she has a lot of laughing to make up.

My mom has not had the easiest of lives – though she loves me deeply and always has, I was part of the reason for that while I was growing up. I’m a pretty good person now, but I was a terrible, horrible child. I mean, I did not make that woman’s life easy. Not by a long shot. But I could, from time to time, make her laugh. And to this day, when I can make my mom laugh, it feels like the acceptance of a long-overdue apology. I still have a long way to go before I’ll be able to compensate for the time when I was seven-years-old and ran across the street in front of the UPS truck so I could show her how fast I was, or the mean things I said to her as a teenager, or all of the tattoos and bad boyfriends of my early twenties. But I’m going to keep trying.

Mom, you are not going to believe what just happened to me…

 

 

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Mother’s Day Series #1

Guest Post

by:  Anonymous Blogger

 

“I Hope My Mom Never Knows…”

It rained in October and where I live this in itself is not unusual.  But, it felt like it had been raining ever since forever ago started.

I was 19 and bored.  I had no good reason to be, mind you, since I was into my 2nd year of college at a fairly prestigious university my parents were all too quick to brag had accepted me just two rainy fall seasons ago.

My girlfriends and I bundled up into cozy cable-knit sweaters and decided to go shopping in one of the trendier sections of our city’s downtown area to relieve our doldrums.

We wandered into a small boutique that had a mysterious “back room.”  The boutique itself was rather pretty and had lots of things that were pink.  Mostly comprised of high-end lingerie, we weren’t off-put either by the salesclerk (who was an ordinary 30-something woman with curly hair and a satin blazer over expertly-ripped jeans) or by the products.  Everything seemed to be on the up-and-up.

My friend, Jasmine (no, not her real name, but a moniker she actually did adopt later that day), was very feminine and was drawn in the front door by a pretty crystal necklace and full-length satin robe-thinga-ma-jig that was hanging in the window.  When we looked around the store, though, we didn’t see the necklace anywhere.

Jasmine asked the clerk who smiled and let her know that it wasn’t actually a necklace, but was really a belly chain.  It was the 90s and this alone wasn’t terribly weird, though I had never seen a belly chain that ornate.

The clerk invited us to see the “other” merchandise in the back room and we thought what you are probably thinking:  there’s sex toys and weird crap back there.

There actually wasn’t.

Instead, there was a slew of rather risque, but altogether uncreepy, Middle Eastern garb fit for what we assumed (and we were right) were bellydancers.

The city where our school was located is known for being somewhat conservative.  I mean, it wasn’t too conservative to have a lingerie store right on a main street, but it was a little too conservative to openly cater to clientelle who were interested in objectifying women in a way that was historically relevant but altogether insensitive to the more modern sensibilities of Middle Eastern culture.

It turns out that this was something of a costume shop that catered to fetishists interested in involving themselves in ancient “art” and was THE place where the bellydancers outfitted themselves for their gigs at the local Egyptian hookah bar and restaurant.

Now, none of us knew that this place had bellydancing.  This is because it was an…unadvertised service.

Jasmine and I over the course of just a matter of maybe 20 minutes found ourselves signing up to perform at what later became a strip show disguised as a “cultural event.”  What cultural event takes place in the basement of a bar and grille, I will never know but it all sounded very unboring at the time.

Jasmine and I performed together a very amateurish strip show where we went full-monty in a room full of middle-aged foreign business travelers.  There was no pole in the room and no stage, but there were interesting things done with finger cymbals.

Thank god there was no such thing as camera phones and Twitter.

I am not entirely embarrassed by this totally out-of-character foray into the seedy underbelly (ha!  see what I did there?) of exotic dance.  But, my mom would fucking murder me if she ever knew about this.

I swear I became a totally normal adult with two Master’s Degrees and 4 kids.  I have a good job and this has somehow not come back to bite me in my now very jiggly ass.

Yet.

Don’t tell my mom, though, K?

Happy Mother’s Day.

 

Seeking Writers

We haven’t done a guest-post series in quite some time.

The world is long overdue for a great series like the one we did on infertility about a year and a half ago.

We had a number of amazing, funny, heartbreaking submissions and I think that it is time to showcase some serious talent again.

The next Off Duty Mom Guest Series will feature articles about the topic of

Embarrassing Stories I Don’t Want My Mom to Know

So, did you do something stupid/hilarious/dangerous/moderately legal in your younger years that our readers would find endearing, funny or adorable?  Did that ridiculous thing you did result in embarrassment, shame or imprisonment that we can all laugh at together?

Have you been in a situation that is funny now, but was mortifying then?  Would your mama slap you silly if she knew you stole that/ate that/went there/dated him/failed that class/drank that Kool-Aid/posed for that picture?

Let’s laugh and cry together.  Share your funny and embarrassing story to be posted in a Mother’s Day series.  Let us be glad that you’re not our kid…

 

The People They Interview on the News Have Children

If you haven’t read everything I have ever posted, why the hell not?

good teacherJust kidding.

Sort of.

But, indeed, if you haven’t read everything I have ever posted, you might not know that I am a teacher in my spare time from being a mother.

I engage in the rampant arguing about the worth of the education professions mostly just in my own mind, but I did want to share something for all of the anti-teacher assholes who troll blogs and websites lurking and waiting for the opportunity to fill up precious lines of “reply” spaces spewing hatred and complaints about “overpaid” “babysitters” and worthless union stooges.

I suppose even those of you who are in support of your local (and not-so-local, too) teachers can listen up as well, though.

Everyone loves to talk about whether teachers are worth their salt.  Opinions are like assholes, though, right?  Everybody’s got one.

Instead of opinion, I thought I would offer you some facts.

1.  Two days ago, I attempted to call the parent of a failing 14-year old student in my class.  She didn’t answer and I left a message.  She did return my correspondence, though, just a few minutes later with an e-mail.  She apologized for not being able to get to the phone in time since she was in the “laboratory.”

2.  In a meeting with a parent about her son’s poor behavior in class this fall, the mother smacked her son in the back of his head and told him to “stop be bein’ so ignant.”  I assume she meant “ignorant,” but even then, I could have used that example to prove the same point.

3.  During a field trip, a local businessperson spoke to a group of high school students, but apologized that she wasn’t normally very good at public speaking.  She said that she wasn’t very “ellocant.”

4.  In a meeting with a parent about why it was important to encourage a high school student to read her English assignments at home, the mother argued that the teacher (a colleague of mine) needed to “settle the fuck down” because there was no point of talking about that “Julia Caesar stuff like it was real or somethin’.”

5. At my former job, two parents were once called in to the main office to pick up their children who had been involved in a pretty nasty fight in the hallway.  In the middle of the office, these two mothers (adults, mind you) got into a fistfight of their own.  They were arrested by local police.

6.  At a park a few summers back, I was near enough to a family reunion happening in a pavilion nearby to overhear a group of what seemed like aunts and uncles teaching a 4- or 5-year old boy to say hilarious things like “back the fuck off me, bro” and “don’t be a pussy.”  They laughed raucously (which was the primary reason my attention was pulled in their direction to begin with).

sign7.  When a coworker called home last week to explain that a freshman student would be receiving a referral to our school counselor for masturbating in class, the boy’s mother yelled at the teacher (a coworker of mine) that her son “don’t do dat.”

Sadlly, I could go on.

But, I feel bad about the world right now, so I am not going to.

When I see a child for 42 minutes a day for 188 days in a calendar year, but he is exposed to all of THAT for much of the rest of the time in his home and in his community, I am not sure how to counteract the damage.  It’s like running at an exploding volcano with a sand pail and then having people traipse all over the internet later talking about what a fucking douche you were for not doing “your job” right in cleaning up the mess.

So, if you will excuse me, I need to go put my feet up, collect a giant paycheck and do my nails while your kids play Candy-Pet-Makeover-Farm-Saga on their iPhones until dismissal.

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